Poetry of Syria: Green Dreams in Red World
Translated and introduced by Saleh Razzouk, Philip Terman and Murray Alfredson
Syria gained independence from the French mandate in 1946, so we must consider it a fairly new country with deep roots in the Islamic past. Alexander the Great made it a part of his empire in 333 and 332 bc. At the close of the 4th century bc it was appropriated by Seleucus I, one of Alexander’s generals, who founded Antioch as the capital… Later both areas, and much of western Asia, passed to the Seleucids, whose realm became known as the kingdom of Syria.
Literature, however, did not concentrate on the war of independence as one would think, because a new challenges on the frontiers took place with Israel. Since 1948, Syria fought Israel. Five big clashes erupted in 1984, 1976, 1973,1982 and 2006. This upheaval left traces on every aspect of Syrian life. One can say it forced new directions and created major trends in all aspects of culture and day-to-day life, including literature.
In terms of poetry, we can distinguish four distinct thematic movements:
National concerns. Here, the main entries are: Palestine, land, clouds of fire smoke and roses sent, etc… National poetry contains a deep rift. Either the poets themselves are either pro-regime voices with loud tonality and direct slogans or, rather, they are on the side of the regime but prioritize artistic elaboration. Modernity occupied the latter group and the discourse is not naked without any make up. On the contrary, it made great advances in every aspect, particularly in questions concerning poetic freedom.
Political matters. Wherein individual poets attack the status of defeat and decadence, blaming repression and American imperialism. Essentially the 1950s were a time of political aspirations. It witnessed the initiation of the Syrian Writers League and its manifesto: “A Road to the Top,” in which the league called for poetry from the rising new nations, such as the Cubans, the Soviets and the Chinese to help Syria in building suitable ethics and aesthetics that can confront Western colonialism.
Erotic or Velvet poetry. Here, the main discourse is the sad self, or injured civilization. Included in this group is the liberation from old chains like masculine society, etc. Erotic poetry called upon writers to abandon socialist realism and to start at once from within, where the true reality develops. In other words, from the self. One can say if political thread in literature is the thesis, the erotic one is the antithesis. And from this turning point early in the 1960s is where modern and avant-garde experiences started.
The last trend is Islamic poetry, which reflected Jihadist tones; the poetry establishment considered this poetry as the remnants of an archaic past.
On the other hand, Syria enjoys a great deal of poetry from minorities, such as the Kurds, the Armenians and the Assyrians, all of whom contributed to the Syrian experience, either in Arabic like the great poet Salem Barakat, who is of Kurdish origins, or in their mother tongue like Luci Sulahyan, the Armenian writer who lives recently with her husband in Canada.
Prose-poetry started in Syria as early as the 1940s in the form of praises to God, but very soon diverted to secular and mainly existential subjects. In the 1980s it became the one and only style youths have absorbed. It is now a strong player in Syrian poetry, ushering a whole generation to new sensitivities and has developed new structures and discourses.
The dilemma of Syrian poetry seems eternal. The best description to this conflict is in Adonis’ interpretation of it. The constant elements of sensitivity dwell within the changeable elements. In other words, the traditions defy modernity, which in turn is traumatized and suffers from ambiguity and uncertainty. Does “modernity” mean a breaking away from traditions, or does it mean that everything follows the western establishment? The debate is still on.
Prior to the Departure
by Iman Chahin Sharba
Before I was killed by a matter of minutes I was combing the hair of my daughter
And braiding her plaits
With pair of tweezers in the shape of a map.
Before I died in matter of a few minutes
I was telling my husband
About possible solutions for peace
And assuring my children
That the war is almost nearing to an end.
Before I was killed by a matter of hours, I was baking the sweets Of salvation. I named it the gathering cake
And decorated it with colors from my country.
Before I was killed in a matter of days here,
I was visiting the grave of my brother
To whisper in his ears the verses of peace and harmony.
I asked myself
Do I expect to live longer? Now here I am dreaming And choking out gradually
Gradually
Just to wake up from the nightmare of tweezers
In the shape of a map exploding into bits and fragments.
Translated by S. Razzouk and P. Terman
Wishes
by Riad Saleh Hussein
I wish to go to the village
To harvest cotton and breathe fresh air
I wish to come back to the city
On a van full of peasants and lambs
I want to wash in the river
Under the moonlight
I want to see a moon
In a street, a book or a museum
I want to build a room
Enough for thousand friends
I want to befriend the sparrow, the air and the stone.
I want to place a river
In the prison
I want to steal the cells
And throw them in the sea
I want to be a magician
And hide a knife in my hat
I want to reach my hand inside
and pull out a white song
I want to possess a pistol
To aim at the wolves
I want to be a wolf to swallow the shooter
I want to hide in a flower
Because I fear the killer
I want the killer dead
Whenever he sees the roses
I want to open a window
In every wall
I want to build a wall
In front of whoever closes the windows
I want to be an earthquake
To shake the idle hearts
I want to place in every heart
An earthquake of wisdom
I want to snatch a cloud
And hide it in my bed
I want the thieves to steal my bed
And hide it in a cloud
I want to make every word a tree, a loaf of bread or a kiss
I wish for whoever does not love trees
Bread
And kisses
To stop talking.
Translated by S. Razzouk and Philip Terman
Cities of Ashes
by Linda Abd Al-Baki
Life inscribes its tattoo on foreheads
Year
After
Year.
Entwines with seasons
Uses bodies as riverbanks.
Here we are,
Picking up our grim dresses
From the horizon lines.
Evenings, barred from visitors,
Set our feet free
To fall into the palms of daylight,
And to draw the maps of a smile on the margin
Of feasts.
We smell from its body
The aroma of eternity.
Whenever it turns around
We surge for its heart
And come back with empty bags.
The Witch says:
You’ll stink in its air.
In the neglected dictionaries
Wishes have been burnt.
It would crucify you on the wings of winds
But it could write you on the night’s wall
With the alphabets of sand
Or make rains that will wash you away
In your genealogical decline
Towards the cities of ashes.
Translated by S. Razzouk and P. Terman
The Besiege
by Ali Suleaiman
I think i see soldiers,
The water is blocked –
They chase me – my mob and friends are all killed,
Some of them
run away or are being sold out….
.
I am besieged,
The sea of sand stretches in front of me…
I am besieged –
You provoked the coolies,
And deceived them,
You emptied them from their beliefs,
And from their silence.
I am besieged!
Why does the people matter?
You fight for them,
You are thirsty because of them,
And you got killed for their sake!!
We bought their spears
But you unsheathed the swords before their faces
And they succumbed to you.
.
Now what about you?!.
Have you not seen them – among us the swords in their hands against you.
Just last night the soldiers
Were your friends,
Were your mob!
I am besieged!
I can see my clan with the soldiers!!
I am besieged!!
You would have been safe if you said: it is not my business.
Then we could accept you among us.
.
I am besieged…
The soldiers approach.
My chest now is planted with spears
And I am swimming in blood.
Translated by S. Razzouk and P. Terman
Niches of Lure
by Madeha Merhish
I’ll stand up from my poem,
put my rhymes behind me,
come down to you and check,
is my love for you
enough to fill my well?
O wind, cut loose your rein,
kneel within your land,
and loving, you will find me ill
though gasp-long far from you.
I should hide
behind an almond tree,
where you first taught me
to taste its bitter fruit.
O may the sun’s dazzle
lose itself
behind the scudding clouds.
And morning comes with winds;
that boat you do not ride.
Amazement freezes
in my heart;
expect not me to weep.
Time welcomes the gathering moment;
arms calmly enfold that place —
so let us please
dance to the sound.
I should expose
deception’s hiding holes
beside my window,
that you might blow right in
through doors flung wide, o wind.
O shed that modest garment,
o pour down heavily.
And look, it seeks the lightning
to match its thunder,
my smart cloud.
But I must shut
that door before me,
return to muddied silence,
flee the death of love.
Make up the numbers
come, my love,
do not be late —
tonight I count
my dear, dear unhopes.
I ache, I ache with longing.
O fear for me,
though none will sorrow for me.
Translated by S. Razzouk and M. Alfredson
from “Praise for Whom I Adore”
by Mohammed Umran
1
From where does a lover start to praise whom he adores?
From where does he enter into details of ambiguity and clarity
Of her secret body?
Are her shadows higher than praise?
Is her time undisturbed from earthy longing
And whispers?
2
Thanks to poetry,
I asked help from its language. It helped me.
In the loneliness of injured silence
Stands my love,
And grace shaded my hands.
I asked time to slow down
Till your hands appeared from the unknown to me.
So I attached myself to their horizons,
And the pieces of my soul crumbled.
Stretch out the shadows of your two hands’ sublime shade
To cover me with.
Now I dress in the shadows and the shadows dress in me.
Now the water of poetry
Drinks up the water of my soul.
3
My heart goes to the heart of the poem.
Its night’s track is too long—
it carried up its prophetic message
and ran through the grace of your hands.
Grace showed up,
Sinking deeper
Till its light fell into the two eyes
Of the sky’s oil,
Till the jewels of the star gleamed
In a vast body.
My heart goes for the heart of the poem.
It is the woman who came
From the beautiful absence—
She stole her calamity
And threw her ember in it.
The fire tongues started in the singings.
4
I finished the grace of my sadness. Is there any happiness?
It sits in my cup.
I drink it loudly and it drinks me.
I finished the grace of my sadness. O happiness
That comes when I wander. My heart
Is its cushion. Please, climb down. We may shine, together,
Over a night of poetry,
Or a night of longing.
Translated by S. Razzouk and P. Terman
On the Roads of Asia
by Hamid Badrakhan
I did not sit even once
Beside a stove fueled with oils from
Children’s blood
Or ablaze with fire of eagle’s heads.
I did not pluck the flowers from gardens.
I like life
With open and graceful doors.
*
The drops that go astray from the clouds
Fall on the ground with yells
But turn into whines
And sing to the ears of the soil
And the spring.
Like so, I was a drop among the people.
*
I am the son of the crowds
And one of those who pass in fives,
In tens,
In hundreds after hundreds
In thousands after thousands
To ask the sun
To give them back their lost eyes.
*
What begins from me does not end in a wall
But it continues to the cities… the seas…the cotenants…
And the life.
*
I flattered young
Girls,
I hugged
Widows,
I made love to married women
With unique fierce will,
And I chased who killed Lorca…
I dance,
Dance to the last remaining
Second
Of my life
Just to give away bunches of flowers
in the minute of my death.
Translated by: S. Razzouk and P. Terman
I Am Him: The Little and Ripe Jesus
by Nazih Abou Afsh
No salvation is there for me,
No absolution for me,
My body is asleep but my soul is
Awake,
My mouth is blind,
Every cell in me is saturated with
cold and moss,
No salvation,
No absolution,
My country is a wide bed and a certain death.
I am the little and ripe Jesus
Who grew behind closed doors and
Glittering mud,
Awakening the melody in the heart
Of his friend,
Sending back the lost dog’s cubs to
iIs mother.
I am
The little and ripe Jesus.
On a throne I come
to vanish on a throne,
My father’s home denies me,
The sky is not my place.
My body is guarded by bayonets,
Ditches and organized war’s laws.
In my blood alligators, epidemics
and sharks breed.
No salvation is there for me,
No absolution.
My throat went too far in singing,
Thundering through flashes of
Flowering times.
Translated by Saleh Razzouk and Philip Terman
Poems for the Exile of Love
by Ahmad Baghdadi
“Every time I remember you a rose bleeds in my eyes.”
While you smoke a cigarette,
While you read the poem,
And while you walk along the ally that leads to the morning
When the windows are wide open overlooking the fields
Of the Euphrates and the wars
— when you see the night, how it sleeps enlightened with the shadow—
While
You listen to the noise and quarrels of children,
The creaks of doors and the old people’s annoyance
From the morning being late
And from the yawns of fields,
And while
You return to the dream
The poet must by now have finished writing the storm.
He bows a little
Calmly before the scene
To cover life with a flower before he went to sleep
In the estrangement of this world.
Translated by Saleh Razzouk and Philip Terman
Syria
by Riad Saleh Hussein
O happy and beautiful Syria
Like a stove in December
O Poor Syria
Like a bone between the teeth of a dog.
O hard-hearted Syria
Like a knife in the hand of a surgeon
We are your good and simple sons
Who fed on your bread, olives and whips.
Forever we shall lead you into the springs.
Forever we shall dry your blood with our green fingers
Your tears with our dry lips.
Forever we shall pave roads for you
And never let you get lost o Syria
Like a song in a desert.
Biographies of Poets:
Madeha Merhish: is a retired English teacher. Lives with her husband in Turkey. She has published four collections of prose poetry.
Linda Abd Al-Baki: is a publisher and bookshop owner. She lives in AlSweda in southern Syria. She has written five collections of prose and free verse poetry.
Ali Sulaiman: born in Mesiaf in 1938. He chaired Alwahda agency for news and publication in Damascus in 1980s. Also, he served deputy to the minster of culture. He has many collections of prose poetry.
Mohammed Umran: ( 1934-1996) Born in Tartous in a coastal village, Omran started to teach Arabic language. He chaired many positions in the establishment of the official Syrian media, and the union of Arabs writers. He edited many official literary journals and newspapers. He has received the Medal of Honor from the late Syrian president and has published his verse and prose poems in Baghdad, Beirut and Damascus. With the poet Adonis and others, he collaborated to promote progressive and modern traditions in Arabic poetry.
Iman Chahine Sharba: Syrian poet lives in Salamiah. She is mother for two children. Her works appeared in many journal and papers.
Hamid Badrakhan: (1924-1996) a Kurdish poet, farmer and journalist from the Aleppo province. He lives in Turkey and works with the newspaper Gûnydin (Goddmorning). He has published two volumes of prose poetry in Arabic and many other collections in Kurdish and French.
Nazih Abou Afsh: A Syrian poet whose work appeared in the 1980s. He belongs to the Beat Generation, characterized by an angry and profound voice. Among his works are God is Close to My Heart, O Depressing Time.. O Beautiful Earth, and Come to Define This Pessimism.
Ahmad Baghdadi: is a teacher of Arabic language in Damascus. He defected to Turkey where he lives and writes now.
Riad Saleh Hussein: (1954-1982) Syrian poet from Aleppo province. He was mute, worked in Cinema Life Magazine in Damascus, later for the Tishreen Daily untill his death after a brief arrest for unspecified reasons. He published three collections of prose poetry; the fourth appeared after his death. A complete edition of his works was published in Baghdad, edited by Emad Najjar. He was considered a pioneer of prose poetry in which you can detect elements from Yves Bonnefoy and Jacques Prevert. He is a symbol of the Beat Generation who continued to revolutionize prose poetry in Arabic in the post-Adonis era.
The Translators:
Saleh Razzouk is an assistant professor at the University of Aleppo, Syria.
Philip Terman is a poet and professor of Literature at Clarion University, USA.
Murray Alfredson is a poet, retired librarian and lecturer, Adelaide, Australia.